Orpheus

Chapter 4

By Pigwidgeon37

The Christmas break started on a Saturday, 22 December to be exact. When the carriages taking the students to Hogsmeade station had departed, and the few remaining students had returned to their quarters or scattered about the castle and grounds to start making whatever mischief their minds had been too busy for during term-time, the teachers retired into the staff room for a glass of sherry, to celebrate the beginning of two weeks of lesson-free bliss. It was more a reflex than a tradition, an instinctive need to be together among adults and adults only, without constantly remembering and reminding each other that the castle was full of children whose number, at least from a statistical point of view, was sufficiently large to guarantee one accident per minute.

During his first twenty years of teaching, Severus had hated this flocking-together, maybe even more than the Christmas and Halloween feasts or the occasional dance. He had felt awkward among such a numerous group of people, whom he secretly feared as much as he despised them, and he usually had disappeared from the room after five minutes, pretending he had some complicated potion simmering in his workroom. What had stung him even more than his inability to socialize was the fact that he never had to make his excuses with anybody but Dumbledore. The others didn't care whether he was there or not. Or so he thought.

Things had changed significantly after his recovery following the Graduation Day Massacre, and even more after he, Moody, Flitwick and Potter had defeated the Dark Lord. Not that he had turned into a party animal, but he was able to see that he needed human contact, that this need didn't debase him or make him weaker, and that most of his colleagues actually cared about him.

For a very long time, Hogwarts had been both his haven and prison, the one safe place where he could lead his daily, teeth-grinding struggle for redemption. Had he not been one of the Four picked by destiny to kill Voldemort, and hence obliged to undergo a veritable personal catharsis before facing the enemy, this ambiguous view of Hogwarts might never have changed. But he had learned to forgive himself for past errors and recognized that he had more than atoned for his mistakes, grave though they had been. Somewhere along the road, the castle had become his home, instead of a pile of old stones he had chained himself to. Many of his colleagues had been surprised when he chose to remain after Voldemort's demise, for his new status as war hero had opened various doors that had hitherto been locked and bolted to the ex-Death Eater. He could have chosen among dozens of offers, but remained what he was. Potions Master at Hogwarts. This was the reason why Dumbledore had chosen him as his successor.

Or rather, one of the reasons. On the one hand, the position of Headmaster was a reward, but for a person such as Severus, it also represented a constant challenge, because he had to place the school’s needs above his own. What Dumbledore had wanted him to realize, though, was that, in order to achieve a satisfying result, he had to do so out of love for the school and not out of self-contempt. Much to the older wizard’s pleasure, Severus had learned this lesson admirably.

A year ago, Severus thought as he and Hermione made their way towards the staff room, walking through the empty, echoing hallways, holding hands but without speaking, or even only four months ago, he would have laughed in the face of whoever told him that, next Christmas, he would be actually looking forward to this little gathering, because he was attending it with Hermione at his side. The woman who loved him, who had chosen him over the wizarding world's most famous hero.

He slowed his pace to look down at her and take in her face, something he was convinced he would never get tired of. What he saw, though, made him stop abruptly. “Hermione, are you crying?” What a stupid question, he scolded himself, of course she was crying—there were tears running down her cheeks. Far more interesting than the confirmation of the obvious, however, was the reason for her crying. It might be happiness, but the stricken, disconsolate expression in her eyes made him doubt that.

“No…” Her left hand was still firmly ensconced in his right, so she used the back of her right hand to wipe her cheeks dry. “It’s nothing, really.”

With a furtive glance up and down the hallway, Severus made sure that it was, indeed, empty, before releasing her fingers and putting his hands on her shoulders. “Hermione. I can see that you’re crying. What’s the matter? Don’t you want to tell me?” When she stubbornly continued to stare at his chest, refusing to raise her head, he cupped her chin and tilted it upwards, trying to catch her look with his own. “What is it, Spikes?” Another quick glance—still no students or teachers in sight—and he gently kissed her lips. “Please?”

She merely shook her head, avoiding his eyes, trying to fight the tears that kept welling up in hers. Severus let out a frustrated sigh, felt his shoulders sag in disappointment. She had been a little strange since he and Sirius returned from France a week ago. Or rather absentminded, he corrected himself. And she’d been having nightmares, almost every night, but had refused to say anything about them in the morning. Maybe she really couldn’t remember them, at least that was what she told him.

“Would you like to talk about it later? Or should I make our excuses with the others? We can go to your or my quarters, if you’d like to, and talk right now…” He could feel the weight of her sadness seep into him. It made the urge to talk this through right here and now even stronger, but he knew that to push her wouldn’t be wise.

“No, I… I’d like to…” She gestured in the direction they had been walking. “Stay with them for a while. And afterwards…” Her voice died down to a whisper. Severus was still cupping her chin and could feel her tears run down his fingers and into his palm, already cool. Hermione swallowed. “I’m ruining it, aren’t I? I’m ruining the mood…”

She was looking very fragile, standing so close to him but lost all the same. In moments like this, or when he watched her sleep, Severus loved her so much he was afraid the feeling would consume him, burn him to cinders, nothing left but grey dust blown away by the wind. It took him a few seconds to regain his bearings, then—this time without ascertaining that they were indeed alone—he pulled her into a firm embrace and held her, until he felt her relax against him. “You are not ruining anything,” he muttered into her hair. “I just want to know what makes you cry. Maybe talking will help, or maybe there’s something I can do. Just… don’t shut me out.” He squeezed her more firmly. “Please.” He felt her nod against his chin and snuggle into his chest, triggering a wave of relief that made his hands shake.



The House Elves had prepared a few amuse-gueule to go with the sherry; salty, tasty little somethings smaller than a galleon. They made the salivary glands contract in a very pleasant kind of pain and prepared the tongue for the sweetish-mouldy oiliness of the sherry.

Hermione had calmed down sufficiently in Severus’s arms, out in the corridor, but felt reassuringly grounded back in reality only after the first bite and sip. The alcohol warmed her; slowly, the mix of guilt, anxiety and near-desperation that had been building up inside her for the last few days shrunk back to reasonable proportions. Glad that her fellow teachers didn’t immediately crowd in on her, she used the few moments she was standing with her back to them, facing the makeshift buffet, to completely recollect herself. She felt anger well up, anger at herself for being so obtuse, for not understanding that she wasn’t alone anymore. She had Severus, and she had friends. A plump black olive, stuffed with something unidentifiable but delicious, burst under her teeth, flooding her mouth with salty bitterness. Hermione smiled to herself. The anger was good. But she would also have to remember that some behavioural patterns, deeply ingrained in her mind, might take a little longer than two months to be replaced with something new and infinitely better suited to her as she really was.

The noise of voices and laughter ceased to be a compact sound and dissolved into its components as she turned round to face her colleagues. From across the room, Severus was looking at her, his expression intense and slightly worried. She smiled and nodded at him; his eyes closed briefly, and he smiled back at her before again dedicating his attention to Yuri Avanessian, the Potions teacher.



The day had been less leisurely than they had expected, mostly because some of the teachers had had urgent business to discuss with the Headmaster before they, too, left Hogwarts. But after the scene in the corridor and the brief, silent interlude in the staff room, Hermione didn’t mind waiting with their talk until after dinner. Severus remained invisible for the better part of the day, and she took advantage of the situation—there were Christmas presents (real presents, deliberately chosen) to be wrapped and sent off, then lunch, then a stroll down to Hagrid’s hut, a late afternoon tea with McGonagall and finally, dinner. Severus was looking a little tired and harassed when he sat down next to her, but he squeezed her hand under the table. They lingered with the rest of the remaining faculty for a while after the students had returned to their quarters, and finally retired to Severus’s rooms for the night.

Hermione gave the Mona Lisa a cheerful wave and turned back to Severus, who was closing and warding the door. “I’m feeling abysmally romantic and sentimental. Do you think you might endure some Tchaikovsky for my sake?”

“Of course.” He went over to the stereo. “Anything in particular?”

“Hmm… The Pathétique?”

He smiled. “Thorough as always, even when it comes to sentimentality.” Pointing his wand at the stereo, he pronounced “Delectabor Tchaikovsky’s symphony number six!” and, when the first accords drifted trough the room, took Hermione’s hand and led her to the couch. It wasn’t really a couch but an armchair he had modified according to their needs on the first evening Hermione had spent in his rooms. Even if Hogwarts had been suffering a shortage of chairs, he would never have restored it to its original shape, and so he had solidified the spells used to lengthen and enlarge it.

Both took off their robes, and while Severus went to get their drinks, Hermione undid her chignon, shook out her hair and massaged her scalp.

“You’re definitely trespassing into my territory, Spikes. Massaging your head is my privilege.” He sat down on the couch, one leg stretched out on the upholstery, the other foot resting on the floor, and waved her towards him. “Come here, woman. I’ve been longing all day to get my hands on you.”

“Aren’t you tired?” she asked, sitting down between his legs and reclining against his chest. “It’s been a busy day for you… yessss,” she purred when deft fingers found the sensitive spots of her scalp and started rubbing circles, applying just the right kind of pressure.

“Not too tired, no. And you? Are you feeling better?”

She relaxed into his touch and into the music, grabbing for her glass. “Better would be an understatement. Right now, I’m feeling as if I had just entered heaven. Anyway—” her left hand came to rest on his thigh and kneaded knotted muscles “—I’d like to talk about… well, this morning. Although it wasn’t just this morning…”

He tensed up instantly. “I know. It started when I came back from France. Only I doubt—”

“No,” she interrupted him, “the two events are unrelated. Pure coincidence. And I should have told you earlier, I know. It’s just that I’m still so used to handling things on my own, and not in the best of ways.”

The calmness of his voice sounded forced to himself. He could feel his back go stiff with the effort to relax, and was sure that she felt it, too. “Does it…” He cleared his throat. “Does it have to do with us?”

“In a way, yes. But it’s not what you seem to think… or fear,” she added, resolutely pulling his hands from her head and around her waist. She felt him relax a fraction, though not entirely, not yet, and let her head fall back until it made contact with his shoulder. “I suppose Minerva kept her promise and didn't tell you…”

“Tell me what?”

“That I had something like a panic attack last weekend in her rooms. It was… well, not a nice experience. Neither for her, I suppose, but I implored her to keep it to herself. Because I wanted to tell you myself.”

“Which you didn't.” His tone of voice was stiff, but his fingers sinuous and flexible as always, as they caressed her belly and breasts.

“No… Because, as I already said, I thought I could handle it on my own.”

“Handle what, my darling? What caused you the panic attack?”

He had inadvertently touched a very sensitive spot between her legs—sensitive despite the multiple layers of clothing, underwear, tights, trousers—and she shuddered briefly. She couldn't see him smile but she knew he did. He always did when he evoked strong physical reactions. “I think… No, I’m almost sure I’ve worked it out. Tell me how it sounds.”

“Arbiter eloquentiae.” His right hand strayed from her body for a moment, to grab his glass.

“Logicae would me more like it. Psychologiae, even. You see—” she sipped at her glass “—Mmmh, this is excellent!”

“Although vodka would have been more appropriate for Tchaikovsky.”

“Brrrrr.” She shuddered again, exaggerating. “You see, somehow Minerva’s and my conversation drifted towards Christmas gifts, and I thought how Dennis had always chosen mine in Harry's stead. And the idea of Dennis triggered such a powerful reaction… in hindsight, analysing it, I assume that the feeling had been there all the time.” With a sigh, she leaned into Severus's body more closely, as if to draw strength from him. “It’s that… that irrational feeling of everything being so very fragile. Our lives, our happiness. One second, and it might be over. I’d been repressing the thought, there was always something more important to do or discuss… but that very moment, in Minerva’s parlour, I was defenceless, I hadn't paid attention, and it came over me with such force… That, and the irrational feeling I was provoking the Fates. Committing an act of hubris by being so happy and not thinking of poor Dennis, who’s at St. Mungo's… I know that the shock I got is probably part of it, but sometimes I’m totally unable to stave off that feeling of anxiety…” She stopped to take another sip from her glass and listen to Severus's heartbeat.

“I know. Or—” he rested his cheek on the top of her head “—did you think I got less of a shock? Or that I’m less afraid, for that matter?”

Somehow, Hermione realized—not without a heavy dose of self-irony—she had been expecting a different reaction, more clichéd, more along the lines of ‘gentle scolding’ pronounced in tones of staunch manliness. What she would have got from Harry, more or less, always the expected, always a commonplace. But this was Severus. Complicated, complex, complexed, caring Severus. “To say the truth…” She drew a shuddering breath. “To be completely and utterly honest, Severus, I… hadn't given your feelings any thought.”

“Nor had I yours,” he replied. “Horrible people, aren't we?”

“Deeply horrible persons, I agree.”

Twisting a long, thick strand of hair around his forefinger, he said pensively, “Strange, isn’t it? We’ve been talking such a lot…”

“Probably this was something we’d rather have forgotten.”

“Probably. But I’m very glad it has come up.”

The pause in their exchange coincided with the interval between the first and second movements. The celli began the sweet, nostalgic theme of the Allegro. Severus cleared his throat. “Hermione, I do realize that this is probably not the ideal moment for asking, but don't you think we might move in together? Somehow, I’m convinced this wouldn't have happened, if…”

“Don't you think it’s too soon?”

“Not for me, no. But I realize that your situation is different, of course. So—”

“I seem to be asking this question a lot lately. Your place or mine?”




The inspiration came to her in the dead of night, when Severus was fast asleep.

She hadn't been aware that love moved forward in great, clumsy leaps with long pauses in between, like a wounded lion dragging himself to the shelter of a tree where he could die in peace. Her only experience with love—although she now knew that it had only been an illusion—had been with Harry, years ago. Oh, of course she had read books, watched movies, listened to people talk. But what she read, saw and heard had confirmed her belief that love was there, in its entirety, right from the beginning, all ready and sculpted to the last detail, a perfectly crafted thing that didn't change with time. Maybe, from time to time, you discovered some new intricacy. And over the years love became as used and worn as an old coin, the sharp ridges rubbed off, the relief fading, fading, until there was nothing left but the memory of what it had once been like.

Probably, she thought, watching Severus breathe regularly, his chest rising and falling slowly, nostrils dilating a bit and then narrowing again, probably this wrong concept of what love really was had made her so hesitant at the beginning of her relationship with Severus. She’d been afraid that what she felt was all she was ever going to feel. She had been wrong. So very wrong. Careful not to wake him, she rolled onto her back and gazed at the canopy, which now seemed black.

They had talked a lot tonight. After she had agreed to move in with him, the tone of their conversation had somehow changed, become more intimate. He had allowed her glimpses of his weakness, his fragility—Sirius had been right, she thought and smiled up into the blackness that stretched over her like an infinite, starless sky. She really had seen too much of the ‘old’ Severus in him, although the new one had always been there, even when she was a scared first-year. Back then, he would rather have killed than admitted to being weak. Now he was able to let her see his true self, warts and all. And love… She crossed her arms behind her head. Love had made an almighty leap forward. Tonight, they had bared their souls to each other. And the lovemaking afterwards had been… beyond words. It absolutely defied description. If this was possible…

Hermione passed a weary hand over her eyes. If this was possible, they might just as well go for the ultimate commitment. Speak of Christmas presents…

*

“Whoa!” said Alastor Moody, slowly turning around himself to take in the surroundings. “Impressive, really.” He grinned at Severus and Hermione. “So it’s official now, ain’t it?”

Both nodded, and Severus put his left arm around Hermione's shoulders. Pale winter sunlight, slanting in trough the window behind them, caused something on the Headmaster’s hand to glint briefly, and a single ray of golden white was reflected directly into Moody’s eye. He squinted, shook his head, stared, limped closer to the couple and grinned. “Is that…”

Severus smiled and shrugged, and Hermione raised her left hand. “It is,” she said, her voice vibrating with smug satisfaction. “Christmas gift.”

Moody’s bushy eyebrows rose a fraction. “Christmas gift? I thought…” He frowned. “Aren’t those… er, engagement rings?” He peered at the identical platinum bands, each of which sported a single, large sapphire.

“My dear friend…” Severus patted the old Auror’s shoulder with his free hand. “Believe it or not, but I was proposed to yesterday morning by this lovely woman. At a most ungodly hour,” he added.

“I was excited. Understandable, isn’t it?”

“‘Course, lassie. And—” Moody’s thumb pointed behind him “—when did all this happen?”

“On Sunday and Monday,” Severus said. “Sirius offered to do the honours, and he insisted on calling Flitwick, too. So the two of them, together with my fiancée… and all the time, she had that sly smile on her face, as if she was planning something more. Which she was, evidently.”

“Evidently.” Moody snorted and made his way over to the wide spiral staircase that rose from the middle of the room, connecting what had hitherto been Severus's quarters to the upper floor. “Fine piece of Charms work. Stable, I hope?” he said, putting his wooden leg on the bottom step. “So, what’s on the second floor?”

“Two studies, bathrooms and bedrooms,” Hermione said.

“Did I hear bedrooms? With an s? Are you going aristocratic or planning on having children?”

Noticing Severus’s belligerent stare, Hermione took Moody’s arm. “I’ll show you around before Sirius arrives. Would you mind staying downstairs and opening the door?” Severus merely harrumphed and stalked towards the adjacent room. “He’s such a light sleeper,” Hermione explained, while they climbed the stairs, “So we thought, just in case one of us was ill or really needed undisturbed sleep, it was better to have two bedrooms.”

“Uh-huh.” Moody cast her a sideways glance. “So, zero children for the two of you?”

“I wish,” Hermione said, trying not to sound too exasperated, “people would stop asking that question.”

They had arrived on the first-floor landing. Moody leaned heavily on the banister, slightly out of breath. “Well, what did you expect? Whom should we want to have children, if not the brightest and best?”

“I see your point, but being bright doesn’t mean we’d make good parents,” Hermione replied over her shoulder, as she preceded him towards her study.

“Of course not. But I don’t think that’s the reason for your decision.”

Her hand resting on the doorknob, she looked up at Moody out of narrowed eyes. “What exactly are you implying, Alastor?”

“Merely that you’re afraid you’ll blame everything you’ve missed on your children, instead of our esteemed Minister.”

Hermione’s jaw dropped. “Well, if that isn’t…” Merely out of respect for a man who not only was fifty years her senior but had also become a friend, Hermione fell silent and took a deep, steadying breath. Then another one. The anger at his impertinence slowly subsided, giving way to rational thought. True, he had been a little blunt. But had he been completely wrong? Wasn’t that nagging feeling of having failed, of having screwed up her life and whatever career she might have had, wasn’t it one of the reasons why she absolutely refused to have children? Even now, as a member of the Hogwarts faculty, she sometimes felt she was second class, compared to Vector, Sirius or Avanessian.

Moody’s gaze was still resting on her, calm and scrutinizing.

“Well, I… I guess you might have a point,” she said feebly. “But Severus—”

“Severus is an altogether different matter. He may have many reasons for not wanting children, but if you wanted them, he’d be easily persuaded. Just—” he put a gnarled hand on her shoulder “—just don’t use him as a comfortable pretext. I agree that, first, you have to come into your own, and that it’s going to take some time. But try to be disciplined. Unless you bring up the subject of children, Severus won’t say a word. Believe me, I know him well enough. He’ll never push you. You, lassie, you are the one who has to work things out for herself and recognize when the time’s right. And now—” he gave her shoulder a gentle pat “—show me those rooms.”



“Where’s the fair hostess?” Sirius asked when Severus opened the door for him.

“Upstairs, with Alastor, showing him our extended quarters.”

Eyeing the result of his and Flitwick’s efforts with satisfaction, Sirius asked, “And how are you feeling after twenty-four hours of engagement?”

“Twenty-nine. She woke me at seven a.m.” Sirius chuckled. “What’s so funny, Black? Anyway, to answer your question, I’m still feeling slightly dazed, but utterly happy. If it weren’t for the two beasts…”

As if on cue, two Kneazle kittens—one pitch black and one chinchilla grey—came cantering into the room. “Ah, of course. The beasts.” Sirius knelt down, thus immediately turning into an object of utmost interest for the two kittens. “Minerva was laughing so hard yesterday when you told the story, I only heard half of it.”

“Really? I was under the impression that your hearing abilities were somewhat impaired because Miss Wilcox was wearing that admittedly stunning dress. It seemed to render you a little… well, absentminded.”

Sirius grinned up at him. “That too. So, how come there’s two of them? Oh, and do you think I might have a whisky?”

Shaking his head, Severus went over to a small table where bottles and glasses were already waiting. “I thought you never imbibed alcohol before six p.m.?”

“Christmas Day and Boxing Day being the exception. And, of course, days with a higher stress level than a man my age can bear. Ouch!” he exclaimed, as one of the Kneazles had sunk its claws into his forefinger. “Quite adventurous, aren’t they?”

“If ‘adventurous’ is a euphemism for ‘cunning little demons from hell’, yes, they are.” Severus returned with their glasses. “As to how we got them… It’s quite simple, really. Hermione told me, some time ago, how much she was missing Crookshanks, you know, her—”

“I know. We got rather well acquainted after I escaped from Azkaban. He was a real personality, Crookshanks.”

“If you say so. Anyway, I decided to get Hermione a familiar for Christmas. The black one,” he explained, pointing at the tangled mass of fur, paws and tails currently rolling on the carpet. “And Hermione…” He snorted. “Well, she really wanted another cat, Kneazle rather, and had the serendipitous idea that I wouldn’t mind so much if it came complete with marriage proposal and engagement rings. Tied around his neck,” he added, seeing Sirius’s puzzled look. “Hence, the scene that almost made Minerva suffocate with laughter. A bed, containing a heap of parcels, two totally bedraggled wizards and two kittens, each carrying a parcel he wanted to get rid of as quickly as possible.”

Sirius picked the Kneazles up by the scruff of their necks, sat down and put them into his lap. “They’re really nice, though. Do they already have names?”

“Pluto and Hades.”

“You’re joking, aren’t you?”

“No, he isn’t” Hermione’s voice came from above. She and Moody started descending the stairs. “Severus insisted, or rather he blackmailed me. Either he was to choose their names, both their names, or one of them had to go.”

“If you ask me,” Moody grumbled, shaking Sirius’s hand, “he just wanted to make sure he still possessed a minimum of male dignity. After she proposed to him!”

“You,” Hermione declared sternly, “are the worst macho I’ve ever met. Shall we?” She indicated the next room, formerly Severus’s study-cum-library, now the dining room. “Twitchy seems to have outdone herself today.” She opened the door, uttered a shrill scream and stumbled backwards.

“What?” Severus caught her before she fell over the hem of her robes. “Spikes, what—”

Wands drawn and poised to curse, Sirius and Moody approached the door and peered into the room, ready to hex whom- or whatever had given Hermione such a fright. In a somewhat anticlimactic movement, their wand arms slowly fell to their sides and they turned back towards their hosts.

“Well,” Moody said, magic eye twirling madly.

“I think,” Sirius said, unable to suppress the grin that tugged at his mouth, “Hades and Pluto might have been an appropriate choice of name. Poor Twitchy, I’m sure she didn’t mean for the table to look quite like this.”